I Thee Wed
by Liberty-In
Summary: Sherlock proposes to John out of the blue. For a case, obviously. Queue awkward situations, sexual identity crises and murdering wedding officials.
1. The Proposal

**A/N: **Firstly: Sorry not sorry. Secondly, I have a couple more chapters just about finished, but at the moment I don't know if I'll continue writing this to completion heh. I guess it depends on you guys. If I do continue, the rating may change. I don't know. Oh and can I just whine about how my muse has been so finicky lately, because it has. I don't even know what's going on. I am trying not to give up on my Bane of Existence series though, have no fear. Anyway. Be sure to tell me what you think! Constructive criticism is totally welcome by the way!

P.S. - As with all my other fics, this has been and shall continue to be cross-posted on AO3. Go to my profile if it's your preferred cup of tea.

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**Chapter 1: The Proposal**

Sherlock gets right to the point.

"John, we should get married."

He says it without inflection, in such a perfectly bored tone that if you were not listening to the words he was actually saying, you would think he's talking about something as banal as the weather.

John, meanwhile, has been making himself (and maybe Sherlock too, if he can get him to eat) some spaghetti bolognese. The knife he's using to cut the onions almost slips, narrowly missing his metacarpals. He's not sure he's heard right.

"Excuse me?" he hints politely for some much-needed clarification.

"You heard me," Sherlock presses with all the patience of a toddler, "Let's get married."

John puts down the knife, sensing this is one of _those_ conversations.

"And _why_, exactly?" John says, with all the patience of a medical professional.

Sherlock rolls his eyes as if it's the most obvious thing in the world, "You're the most logical option."

John's waiting for the punchline. When none seems forthcoming, after a long moment of silence and a silent stand-off, he rolls his shoulders and simply says, "Uh, no."

Sherlock looks genuinely confused, as if up until now, he's never realised that John was actually capable of saying no to him and actually sound convincing. It's wiped away quite quickly.

"Why not?" Sherlock asks, squinting at his friend. He honest-to-god looks like he's about to stomp his foot and throw a tantrum.

John leans back a bit, blinking with disbelief, "Sherlock, I'm not marrying you because it's 'the most logical option'."

Sherlock makes a little sulky noise that John was completely expecting, or something along the lines of.

"But there's no other way," Sherlock says, vehemently, "The official who performs the ceremonies is a murderer and all of my evidence is 'circumstantial', according to the utter fools down at the Yard, so he must be caught in the act to gain grounds for a solid conviction."

John really couldn't care less, "No. I am _not_ marrying you, Sherlock."

"But John," Sherlock stretches out his name into a whine that would do a six-year-old girl proud, "It's for the greater good!"

John snorts, "Like you care about the greater good."

Sherlock smirks smugly, "No, but you do."

John sobers up at that. He says, "Get someone else to marry you."

"It's a civil marriage official."

"Get Lestrade to marry you!"

"He wouldn't marry me if his life depended on it, and the feeling's mutual. You on the other hand -"

John can't believe what he's hearing, "And what the _hell_ makes you think that I would?"

"There are lives at stake here, John," Sherlock widens his eyes in mock earnestness.

John stares at him. He says, "You've got to be joking."

Sherlock says, "I never joke."

"Yeah you do," John counters.

Sherlock sighs melodramatically, "It wouldn't _mean _anything, and we can get a divorce the following day, if that eases your mind."

"No, Sherlock! There is _no way_ I'm marrying you!" John's voice rises a couple of octaves, and he bunches his hands into fists as if that would help strengthen his resolve.

"But _why_ _not_?" Sherlock says, verging on petulant, as he huffs and crosses his arms.

John actually cannot believe this is his life.

"Because it's just not what mates do! You'll just have to find another way to catch the murderer."

Sherlock tilts his head and regards him for a moment, "I've heard that a spouse is often one's best friend. And don't you think I've already considered every other option? This is the one most likely to give me what I need."

John considers the very, very sharp knife in front of him. He closes his eyes, and counts to ten, as slow as he can.

After a moment, he glares up at his pouting friend, "Alright. Fine. But I have conditions."

Sherlock waves a hand, indicating he continue.

"It doesn't mean a thing," John holds out one finger.

"Absolutely not," Sherlock shakes his head emphatically.

"We get divorced the _very_ next day. Seriously, I don't care about the usual grounds for divorce rules," John continues, unfurling a second.

"Certainly. Mycroft owes me a bit of a favour anyway," Sherlock gives a feline smile.

"You may not tell another soul about this once it's over, nor will you tell a soul while we're married. Capiche?" John has steely eyes trained on Sherlock in the most menacing way he can muster.

It would be effective if it was anyone else, but this is Sherlock, and no matter that he wouldn't dare say it aloud - Sherlock finds John-in-a-huff incredibly endearing. He always feels an irrational urge to - do things he would not normally consider, never mind actually _do_.

Sherlock doesn't allow himself to grin in triumph, but instead nods his solemn acceptance and exits with his usual dramatic air.

John sighs as he gets back to making dinner.


	2. The Puzzle

**A/N: **And here's the second chapter! I hope it lives up to your expectations guys. Seriously, I'm feeling slightly intimidated by how much you guys expect from this. But I'm writing for fun so meh, I'll go right ahead and just do that and if ya'll like it, well that's just a bonus. :D Do tell me what you think though, I reply to every comment! Oh and I'm totally open to ideas/con-crit because to be honest, I haven't really thought too far ahead yet with this fic. I have a couple of scenes mapped out in my head but I might end up getting bored and just abandoning it. It's happened before. Especially with how busy I am (supposed to be) with my last year of high school, it could go either way. Anyway, enough of me. Enjoy! x

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**Chapter 2: The Puzzle**

Sherlock doesn't _actually_ need to marry John to catch the murderer of newly-weds.

He didn't lie to John when he said that he'd considered every other option, because he_ has_ considered every other option and this one really is the one most likely to give him what he requires without a hitch - no pun intended.

The twist is that John doesn't know what Sherlock wants, and in all honesty what Sherlock wants doesn't have much to do with the case.

He had not lied, simply manipulated the truth; neglected to mention a few things, if you will.

It's just he's been so _bored_ lately, and he believes he cannot be held accountable for wanting to try something new when the rest of the world is being so mind-numbingly monotonous. It's either this, or allowing his mind to slowly deteriorate and consume itself. He's never thought that this latter possibility would be pleasant for anyone, least of all him, so he's always in need of something to occupy his infuriating mind before the damage is irreversible.

He'd been lying prone on the sofa: face smooshed into the cushions, lungs expanding and contracting tediously, olfactory receptors sending signals to his brain and perceiving faint lingering scents of burnt toast, formaldehyde, and rosin. He'd been trying to occupy his mind by thinking through possible experiments on various species of fungi and mould compositions, but none had held any appeal. He'd already set up meticulous records in his mind palace about what is most common (and in some cases, unique), and it was all just so _dull_.

Everything was just so exceedingly dull and it was starting to make him petulant and irritable and terribly impatient for something new to come along.

He was so impatient that he was an inch off hacking into government databases and security systems again - just to piss Mycroft off - and damn the consequences. Mycroft in a tiff is always less dull than complete and utter inertia.

The case that Lestrade had asked him for help with - the newly-weds case - was pedestrian, a five at best, and he'd already solved it. All that remained was the matter of retrieving hard evidence (well, _harder _than what Sherlock had given them), or catching the man in the act. He knew he was perfectly capable of finding the evidence they needed, but why on earth should he bother when everything about the case _screamed_ banal and boring? Surely he could have faith that the incompetent monkeys that run the Yard weren't _totally_ incapable.

Then he'd heard John walk into the flat, muttering something about people seeing only what they want to see. Naturally, Sherlock had deduced that either Mrs Hudson or a neighbour - more likely the latter - had made a passing enquiry about his and John's non-existent romantic relationship yet again.

In a stroke of true genius (true to his character) Sherlock had thought: Why not experiment _on_ _John_?

Half of London seems to think they're together, and the other half just doesn't know them. There has to be something - something obvious - that Sherlock's missed to make them do so. Some _reason_ the majority share the same opinion.

Sherlock isn't completely oblivious - he knows the signs of attraction - _heightened pulse, dilated pupils, elevated breathing_ - and John exhibits more of them towards Sherlock far more frequently than he does towards any one of his long string of girlfriends. It could be a number of other things, certainly; these signs alone and occurring individually in various situations don't prove a thing by themselves. It could be fight-or-flight responses kicking in prior to a chase, changes in lighting, or just plain old anger at something a bit not good that Sherlock had done unwittingly.

Sherlock is anything but stupid, but he really isn't an expert when it comes to emotions on a subjective level, as begrudging as he is to admit it. When it relates to his work - when it's _objective_ - he has it down to a science. At the moment, however, he can't draw any conclusions with the appalling lack of data he has on the matter.

Sherlock's curious though, and when his curiosity is piqued he'll do anything to satisfy it.

John is different - he's a friend and for some reason, emotions associated with him are fascinating. Much more so than the general public and their terribly predictable inclinations. John is an outlier, because he's not the same as the rest of them. He's unpredictable in his actions. Sherlock often attempts to deduce the most likely outcome, but rarely does John act accordingly. In fact, Sherlock has estimated a 57% success rate with such deductions, which is wholly unacceptable with how long he has known John and how familiar he is with his habits and personality traits. It's almost as if John's brain is wired differently to those of the general masses.

It doesn't make sense, and yet there it is.

Sherlock just _doesn't know_ when it comes to John, and rarely does that happen. Almost never does. So how can he resist running tests on the one truly bewildering regularity in his life?

This idea of his really is just one big social experiment to find out the truth disguised as a fool-proof plan to catch a killer.

Sherlock couldn't wait to get it well and truly underway.


	3. The Prat

**A/N:** Oh look a third chapter. Hope the case doesn't reek of bullshit haha. Bit longer than my other chapters. Oops. I'm trying to keep the same length but I guess that might not work out after all. xD Tell me what you think! xx

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**Chapter 3: The Prat**

John has had many rude awakenings since moving into 221B. It'd been a bit of a package deal - messy flat, adrenaline-fuelled cases, and an inconsiderate, petulant, unpredictable alarm clock of a flatmate.

Depending on his mood, Sherlock may feel it necessary to wake John by torturing his violin into screeching like a dying cat, or maybe by yelling at some 'inane' telly show (he just _knew_ it was a terrible idea to get Sherlock into crap telly). There was one constant to this madness, however, and that was that this always occurred at godforsaken hours of the morning. There was this one time when Sherlock had been conducting an experiment and John had been startled awake thinking he was back in Afghanistan, because the explosion in the kitchen had damn well sounded like a IED going off. When he'd gotten a grip and stomped angrily downstairs to check, he wasn't too far off the mark. It had been a while before the kitchen was usable again. There were the times when it was case-related, too, and John is usually grudgingly fine with that. But today is a totally different story.

It isn't a wailing violin, or shouting, or even an explosion that startles John awake this time.

It's a fog horn.

A handheld, blaring, ugly, who's-genius-idea-was-it-to-invent-such-a-monstros ity-and-release-it-to-a-world-where-madmen-can-get -their-hands-on-it-and-torture-John _fog horn_.

After jerking awake like he's been electrocuted, John pushes himself up to rest against the headboard of his bed, clutching his bed sheets and duvet closer to him as he stares, horrified and wide-eyed, at his lunatic flatmate standing at the foot of his bed. His lunatic flatmate who has just _blasted a fog horn in his ear_.

"What the hell?!" John cries, voice cracking in hysterical frustration.

Sherlock gives him a Cheshire grin, spinning the offending source of the god-awful alarm bell in his agile, spindly hand, "Excellent. Just as efficient as I expected."

"What?" John chokes out, heart still racing a mile a minute.

"I needed you awake, but you were in the delta stage of sleep and it would have taken much longer if I had done something as tedious as shaking you or calling your name. A fog horn was a much quicker method of rousing you. Saved at least half a minute this way," Sherlock says airily.

Now that the initial shock is fading, anger is swarming in to take its place. John can feel his blood pressure rising, a monster prowling inside the cage of his chest.

"Quicker? _Quicker? _You complete prat. A bloody _fog horn_ is _not_ a nice way to wake someone up!"

Sherlock rolls his eyes hard enough to break something, his whole lean frame screaming that he's already bored with this conversation.

"Oh stop complaining and get up already, John. Our appointment's in an hour."

"What appointment?" John blinks, valiantly trying to get his rearing temper under control, but before he even finishes voicing the question his bedroom door is swinging shut behind Sherlock, a.k.a. the bane of his existence.

"Sherlock, _what appointment_?" John yells down the stairs.

He grumbles incoherently when he receives no reply. It's not difficult for him to hear Sherlock smirking arrogantly from a floor down.

When John makes his stormy, irritable way into the living room after showering, dressing and telling himself ten times that murdering his flatmate will get him nowhere in life, he finds Sherlock on his own laptop for once. The screen lights his face up in ghostly relief, accentuating his cheekbones to make him appear even more enigmatic than usual.

"Our appointment?" John presses, going into the kitchen to make some world-renowned therapeutic tea. He senses he's going to need it today, what with the terribly rude awakening and the foreboding feeling he has swirling around in his gut.

That feeling seems to have taken up residence ever since Sherlock … _proposed_.

"At the tailor's. You need a tuxedo," Sherlock answers, not really paying attention to John.

John peers back into the living room to stare at the lowered, curl-adorned head, "And what's wrong with the one I have?"

Sherlock glances up at him briefly, "Nothing at all if you want to turn up to the wedding looking like a mole. Really, John. We're not getting married with you wearing that potato sack."

John almost drops his mug. What the _hell_ is wrong with Sherlock today? John swears he's worse than his usual socially-inept self. John sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. As much as the man aggravates him, Sherlock usually has good intentions behind his actions. They're just buried way down deep and out of sight of regular human vision. John also knows that on a case, Sherlock will do anything and everything to make sure an undercover operation runs smoothly. And apparently, John getting a new suit is a part of that.

"Our killer marries up to six couples every fortnight, but there is only one couple victimised in that period of time. We need to make an impression to ensure that he chooses us as his next victims," Sherlock continues at his usual rumbling speed with nary a pause for breath.

"How do you know that uh … 'looking good' will make him choose us?" John frowns slightly.

Sherlock sighs theatrically, "It's obvious, John. The bodies were carefully dissected and eviscerated; they were almost identical in their post-mortem states. For this killer, it's all about the aesthetics. He's precise and meticulous in his patterns of both his process of killing and cleaning up after himself, hence the lack of incriminating evidence. Not only is he smart, organized and careful, but to him this is an art that needs to be done perfectly with the right bodies and mutilations or not at all. He selects his victims based on how they look, and whether or not they represent what he opposes. What he opposes is yet to be confirmed, but I suspect it's a grudge against happily-married homosexuals. Whether said grudge is personal or not is irrelevant."

If John's being totally honest with himself, he feels slightly nauseous. "That's sick."

Sherlock hums noncommittally before typing away at his laptop as fast as rapid gunfire.

"Serial killers are generally methodical and clear away any incriminating evidence as they see fit, yet they inevitably get cocky and making a fatal mistake soon follows. I assume you don't wish to wait for that to happen. Without looking our best, that _would_ _be_ what would happen, John," Sherlock pauses in his typing to pierce John with a look.

John assumes a weary expression. _Git_, he thinks.

"Fine, alright. I'll get the damn suit. But you're paying for it," John crosses his arms and glares.

Sherlock merely gives one of his bright, wide, closed-mouth imitations of a smile.


	4. The Pararthria

**A/N:** I want to give all of you who have favourited, followed and/or reviewed this fic a HUGE cyber-hug. You guys rock haha! It makes me so happy to see so many of you guys are enjoying this! ^^ I'm really sorry this took so long, but I made this chapter longer to make up for it! Which is a good thing, I hope. I think all future chapters might be longer too.

Funny story: You might or might not have noticed that every chapter title has a 'p-word' in it - no get your mind out of the gutter. Anyway, I was looking up unusual ones because I want every chapter's title to have one and was lacking inspiration. I found this word: 'parasuicide.'

It basically means 'an _apparent_ attempt at suicide.'

GUESS WHO IT MADE ME THINK OF OMFG. Sherlock totally committed parasuicide and John _still thinks it was suicide_ and I just - it's still too soon for me, okay. *hugs knees and rocks back and forth* Gah. Alright, on with happy things now. Tell me what you think of this chapter pleeeease? (That was me emulating Moriarty by the way.) Or respond to this note, I don't mind I just love hearing from ya'll! xD Constructive-criticism is more than welcome too. Oh, and note that I might come back and edit this hehe ^^

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**Chapter 4: The Pararthria**

John wakes up the next morning with a disheartening thought: _Damn, I have work_.

Being a soldier who has regained his equilibrium, John's supposed sleeping schedule entails going to bed at around 11 and then waking up at around the crack of dawn. In reality, however, it's much more unpredictable, as would be expected when one lives with a slightly mad genius. So this peaceful awakening of his, unlike the foghorn incident, is relatively strange in its normality.

For all he appreciates the sweet absence of something trying to bash his eardrums into a pulp, he still awakes with that same aforementioned uneasy feeling. It's absurd, but there it is. Though if being a soldier has taught him one thing, it's that sometimes your gut knows better than your conscious thoughts do. In the battlefield, sometimes it comes down to split-second decisions, life-or-death situations - all one can count on is the training hard-wired into one's brain manifesting itself in the form of a gut reaction.

John feels ridiculous and on-guard at the same after thinking about this particular gut feeling, because he's conflicted. There doesn't appear to be any danger at all, and yet ...

He shakes it off and heads downstairs.

John finds his flatmate in his arm chair, slouching ever-so slightly, jiggling one leg up and down, and all with an air or elegance and posh arrogance. Only Sherlock Holmes could manage something so ridiculously contrary. He's texting, eyes fixed steadfastly to the small luminous screen of his Blackberry as his fingers push furiously at the keypad. John finds himself musing that Sherlock texting is somewhat entrancing.

_Well that was an odd thought_, John shakes he head and goes off to make his morning cuppa.

When the water finishes boiling, Sherlock materialises at the entrance to the kitchen and says, "The date is set for Tuesday."

John takes a moment to make the connection. After all, he simply _can't_ be expected to function properly without his morning cup of tea - that would be just like asking for toast without a spread: wrong and repulsive.

"As in, the wedding is on Tuesday?" John double-checks as he goes to the fridge for milk.

"Yes," Sherlock drawls sarcastically, drawing the word out long enough that it pokes at John's nerves.

John shoots him a 'don't, Sherlock - I'm the one with the gun' look.

Then it occurs to him, "How did you manage to get a time slot so soon anyway? I've heard there's usually quite the waiting list."

Sherlock's ice-laser-sharp eyes flick away and over John's head, "It wasn't too hard to pull a few strings. It's for a good cause, after all."

John hums noncommitally, raptly attentive on the mug of heavenly drink he is concocting.

Sherlock clears his throat, and if John didn't know any better he'd say Sherlock was having one of his out-of-my-depth moments.

"You have work today," he comments.

"Yes, I do," John replies, a hint of a question mark tailing his words.

Sherlock pauses for a heartbeat and then strides away without any kind of warning. John watches him go in bewilderment.

He soon lets it go, because Sherlock Holmes is quite the oddball after all.

John's day at the clinic turns out to be even more dull than usual. He likes helping people, sure. There's no doubt about that. It's just compared to all he's been through: in Afghanistan, assisting Sherlock - the clinic is just a tad mundane. He hates himself for thinking that way, because that seriously isn't what a _doctor_ is meant to think about his patients, no matter who they are or what their ailment or injury is, but honestly he's come to terms with the fact that he is just an adrenaline junkie and that's that. So, when he gets a text from Sherlock as soon as he's out of the building requesting he join him at St Bart's 'immediately', John can't help but feel his heart rate pick up. Hopefully this is a new development with the case or some such.

John enters Bart's and quickly finds his way to Sherlock's usual lab. With the amount of times he's been here, both before Afghanistan and with Sherlock, it's almost like doing it with his eyes closed. He pushes the doors open to find Sherlock staring off at some invisible-to-everyone-else computer screen conjured up by his brain, with fingers steepled, brow furrowed and obviously thinking very, _very_ hard.

John says tolerantly, "So what's up?"

"Impeccable timing, John," Sherlock prevaricates without a glance in his direction, "You must have come as soon as you received my text."

John tries not to feel like a dog and fails. He crosses his arms and shuffles his feet, "Right. What's so important you needed me here right away?"

Sherlock looks at him and John is immediately wary. He knows that look. That look is usually followed by something crazy like jumping out into the open to distract an amateur gunman or taking a dip in the Thames in the middle of winter.

"Sherlock," John says warningly, "Whatever it is you're thinking of doing, _don't_."

True to his nature, Sherlock ignores such a command, steps regally from his lab stool and begins advancing in a frankly terrifying manner towards John. John, out of confused instinct finds himself backing away until he collides with a wall.

They both stop, freeze. They're about a foot away from each other.

Sherlock peers down at him, eyes flicking all over his face in rigid scrutiny, a focus usually reserved for corpses and crime scenes, and John finds his insides squirming uncomfortably under the intensity of that gaze. The scariest part of all isn't all the warning bells going off in John's head being the subject of Sherlock's gaze.

It's the fact that John honestly can't tell if he wants to flee or wait and see what Sherlock does next.

"Sherlock, what are you -" John starts.

"Shut up. I'm thinking," Sherlock interrupts shortly, irritably.

John's mouth clicks shut with an audible click. He feels light-headed, but that could be the adrenaline. But adrenaline sharpens the senses...

Sherlock's eyes are still roaming over John's face, picking up God knows what. His eyes are narrowed, his jaw is visibly clenched and his lips are pursed and John shouldn't have looked at his lips because now he can't stop staring.

Then John senses Sherlock shift, or maybe he doesn't, but something makes him look up into pale grey-green-blue eyes and hold. Sherlock seems to shake himself and then opens his mouth and says -

Nothing. Instead, he takes John's head in his hands and kisses him square on the mouth in less time than it takes to form a coherent protest.

John lets out _the_ _most embarrassing_, teenage-girl squeak and immediately wants the world to swallow him whole. But no, he's not the one in the wrong here. Sherlock is!

_Sherlock_ just _kissed_ him! What the f-

Jesus Christ and Mary mother of God, Sherlock is _still_ kissing him, despite John's statue impersonation!

John has no idea what is happening - his brain has flat-lined, but his heart is racing a mile a minute and he's stopped breathing.

Passing out is looking more and more like a possibility.

It's a mere 10 seconds, but it feels like a decade has passed before John starts to notice things. Things like how Sherlock's lips are soft and gentle moving against John's loosening ones, how his eyes are closed, how his breath smells like peppermint, how his hands are massaging his scalp in an entirely soothing-but-really-not-and-oh-god-_what-is-happening _kind of way. Yes, passing out from _confusion_ is looking more and more like a possibility.

Then the doors to the lab burst open.

"- wasn't sure how old you wanted them, so um, I just grabbed a couple and - oh."

Molly. It's Molly.

Christ, as if this couldn't get _any worse_. John pinches the bridges of his nose for a moment and thinks, _Lord give me strength _before looking up to survey the damage.

John stares at Molly in mute horror - a subtler mirror of her expression. She takes in Sherlock and John's _much_-closer-than-usual proximity and faces. It wouldn't take a genius to work out what they'd just been doing.

John feels like a git. Molly's obviously had a huge crush on Sherlock for quite a long time, and right now she looks like she's holding back about a gazillion emotions.

"Molly, wait -" John starts, but Molly is already gone, door swinging shut behind her.

Damn. He feels sorry for her, but he _really_ needs to tell her that this needs to _stay between the three of them_.

He glares at Sherlock, who has a distant contemplative look on his face. John's having none of it though.

"Sherlock," John begins, slowly and ever so carefully enunciating his words, "_What_ was that?"

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**That little white box isn't there for nothing you know ;)**


	5. Palinode

**A/N:** I felt like another update this weekend. It's shorter because it felt natural to end it there. Point: if you haven't read Chapter 4 yet GO DO IT. Might be a while before I update again, so think of this as a little calm-before-the-storm tip-off before intermission. Reviews, advice, favourites and follows are like point seven solution to my imagination.

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**Chapter 5: Palinode**

"Sherlock," John begins, slowly and ever so carefully enunciating his words, "What was that?"

"We need to establish some intimate familiarity, or else we won't be appealing to the murderer, John! I knew you would protest, so I needed to catch you by surprise and once I had done it _once_ I'd been hoping you would be more amenable to hear my reasoning," Sherlock says emphatically.

"I can't _believe _you," John says, "I should file a report against you for sexual harassment. No, actually, harassment in general -"

Sherlock snorts, "Well what do you expect to happen when we turn up to get married?_ Of course_ we'll have to kiss and act like we're happy to be getting married!"

John laughs hollowly, "That does _not_ justify the kiss. You could have told me, Sherlock, and I did not give you my consent!"

Sherlock's gaze narrows at him, "You would _not_ have said yes, so I took matters into my own hands. Besides, I didn't hear you making any protests."

John's hackles rise, "Now, hang on - that has nothing to do with -"

"You froze, but with instincts as honed as yours from long-term training and military service you could have easily pushed me away before I kissed you," Sherlock interrupts, eyes blazing and frightening in their intensity. "And yet you didn't. In fact, you were about to start kissing back before Molly interrupted us.'

John takes a deep breath and tries to reign in his temper.

Then a thought occurs to him and his eyes narrow in return, "That was an awfully convenient interruption."

Sherlock's features school into a perfect mask of indifference. _Too_ perfect - which is exactly how John knows it's fake.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean," Sherlock says with arrogant nonchalance.

"Oh come off it. You know exactly what time to expect me to arrive here from the clinic, but not when Molly will come back from whatever it was you sent her to get? What's that all about, hmm? What's your angle?" John raises his eyebrows and stands tall - or, as tall as he can manage. It doesn't matter, because he didn't earn the title of 'Captain' for nothing.

Sherlock looks down his nose at him, before rolling his eyes and striding away and out of the doors Molly had just vamoosed through. John lets him go, but they both know this isn't over yet.


	6. The Ponderation

**A/N**: Hi, hello, how are things? Yes, I'm honestly curious! If you ever feel like talking to a random stranger then I recommend me. I'm 100% serious, I'm so chatty online lol. Even though I'm busy with school, I'm always up for a chat. Maybe on twitter? You can find my username and more of my domains in my bio. ;) It's been a while, sorry about that. You know how it is with school. Technically, I should be busy as fuck trying to keep on top of all of my schoolwork but what can I say, I _need_ to write.

I would apologize for the pointless ramble but I'm not sorry.

Thank you so, _so_ much to the people who have favourited/reviewed/followed, you guys are awesome! I know I haven't replied to any of the reviews that you've made while I'm away, and I'm sorry about that. But I will, eventually. Probably when the holidays come around and I have plenty more time on my hands. But feel free to continue with reviewing. I am sorry it took so long for me to update, but here's a fairly long chapter to make up for it. Feedback (of all kinds) is my point seven solution x

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**Chapter 6: The Ponderation**

"John!" Sherlock calls from his lair, "Have you seen my trousers?"

John shakes his head even though the other man can't see him.

"No, sorry," he calls from the kitchen, where he's making his morning cuppa.

"I can't find them anywhere!" Sherlock's irritation is saturated in the morning air.

"Well, what makes you think I'd know where they are?" John calls back incredulously.

"Keeping track of the trivial details is your job," Sherlock cries.

Sometimes Sherlock is so obviously a mummy's boy that John feels just the tiniest bit emasculated by association.

Sounds of crashing around come from within Sherlock's room, enough to set John's teeth on edge. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I'm not your slave, Sherlock."

There's a pregnant pause.

"I _know that_," Sherlock says in a low voice, but it still carries through the relative quiet to John's ears.

John scratches the back of his neck, suddenly feeling a bit torn for no apparent reason.

"Why can't you just deduce where they are?" John blurts out.

Sherlock sighs heavily as if it's the most obvious thing in the history of the planet, "_Because_, John, when I'm focussed on mulling over a problem, I eliminate all sensory input to a bare minimum and turn off any unnecessary trains of thought to enhance the process. If I had put my trousers away while in such a state, they could be in _your_ room for all I know."

John tries to stop his mind from wandering, but with the themes threaded through their latest case, it's hard _not_ to imagine what Sherlock's trousers in John's room would imply.

That's the thing. The elephant in the room has morphed into a bloody blue whale and even though John's trying ever so hard not to think about it, an elephant's pretty hard to ignore, never mind a whopping great _whale_. John's even more frustrated that Sherlock's refusing to acknowledge his mistake.

John supposes he shouldn't be surprised, but he's just a bit fed up with the mind games that Sherlock's playing.

It's so subtle, it's obvious.

Sherlock hasn't been himself, au natural, in a long while. Not since this whole getting–married–to–catch–a–killer thing started. It's all a ploy. John sees right through the consulting detective, but he doesn't want to talk about it yet. He's curious. Maybe it's the wrong move, but he wants to see how this played out.

Perhaps he has a death wish; there's no way of knowing what the hell Sherlock's really up to, with the kissing, blasting fog horns, and god knows what else John's in store for. Yet here he is, going along with it. He's already screwed in the head thanks to his PTSD, so it's hardly something new for him to be running a bit close to the edge. Not new, but no less discomfiting, so he's pushed such thoughts to the side and continues on.

"Found them!" Sherlock cries triumphantly, "They were under the textbooks. Wonder how that happened."

"You're not the only one," John mutters to himself.

Sherlock walks into the kitchen a moment later, running a hand through his hair. John wordlessly hands him his mug of tea. He actively ignores how their fingers brush.

"Thank you," Sherlock murmurs, his eyes drawing John's in like a south pole to a north.

John feels out of his depth as Sherlock's eyes assess him, shining seemingly from within – the way they do when he's being particularly observant.

Seriously, what is _with _Sherlock lately? Is _he_ doing this, planting ideas in John's mind that refuse to be killed? Or is it John? Is it _John_ that's seeing things that aren't there, because he can't get the bloody idea out of his mind? The idea that's meant to be an act for a case, and not affecting him at all because he's 100% sure he's not into his flatmate like that?

John just doesn't know – and he usually does with these sorts of things – because this is his flatmate, friend and associate. Previously thought to be _asexual_ flatmate, friend and associate. So is it him then, seeing things for some reason he isn't sure he's ready to think about? Or is Sherlock manipulating him somehow, for some reason he _also_ doesn't want to think about?

The uncertainty of it all is setting off mini explosions in his brain.

"No problem," John replies in equal volume, hurriedly looking down at his own mug, but he can still feel Sherlock's gaze on him like a brand.

He clears his throat and says, "So what time are we set to be there?"

"Ten," Sherlock says crisply, taking a sip of his tea, his eyes roaming over John's face for a second longer before flicking away.

"Right."

When they've finished their tea, Sherlock dumps his tea mug into the (thanks to John) dish–free sink and gallops down the stairs.

John follows suit.

–––

"Sherlock."

" – is absurd. I don't even like blue! Why on earth would the designer think to add _blue_ flowers and ribbons? I thought white was the _traditional_ colour for these affairs?" Sherlock's voice is filled with scorn.

"_Sherlock_," John presses.

Sherlock throws a look at John and rolls his eyes, "I refuse to apologize for pointing out incompetency, John."

John shifts back on his heels slightly and raises his eyebrows, crossing his arms at the same time.

Sherlock narrows his eyes at the smaller man, huffs, and storms off with all the disdain of a snotty teenage girl.

John heaves a sigh and after apologising to the member of staff, follows Sherlock.

"Sherlock, you can't just go around saying things like that. You heard the manager; it's not their fault they don't have white decorations up yet," John explains with extreme patience.

Sherlock heaves a great sigh, "Yes but this _is_ our rehearsal, John. Although I do suppose it's a bit much to expect people to do their jobs correctly."

John gives a small smile and shakes his head, directing his attention back to the expanse of the hall. There are rows of seats, all facing a raised stage. A wide aisle runs down the middle, marked with a red carpet. The aforementioned blue decorations includes ribbons linked together with bunches of flowers running down the rows of seats on the aisle side. The same blue adornments run high along the walls.

"Why does it matter what colour the decorations are, anyway?" John mutters, holding one hand in the other behind his back and continuing his perusal of the scene.

"When setting a trap up to catch a rat, cheese is placed in exactly the right position, correct? This is a trap, John, and if the right bait isn't used, or placed in the wrong position, it won't catch the killer," Sherlock rumbles.

John snorts, "Bullshit."

Sherlock jerks his head to look down at the older man, "I … beg your pardon?"

John glances at him and gives a bit of a smirk, "The colour or layout of the decorations won't determine whether the killer will show his face later on. You just want everything to look nice."

It's Sherlock's turn to snort, with a bit more disdain than his companion, "How fanciful of you."

"That wasn't a 'no'," John returns mildly.

Sherlock opens his mouth to retort, but is saved when the doors to the hall open with a groan, revealing one Molly Hooper. Her face is one better suited for a poker game, but flashes of emotion escape in her eyes as she takes in the hall – which is exactly how John knows that she'd rather be anywhere but here at the moment.

John turns to face Sherlock and says with a tone, "Sherlock."

"Molly!" Sherlock cries, making his way forward, "Excellent. Delighted you could make it."

John can feel a pounding in his head as he follows Sherlock. Molly has a small smile on her face as she gives a little wave.

"Hello. Love the decorations," she says, laughing a silly little giggle.

Sherlock gives a wry half–smile.

"Sherlock?" John prompts.

"Ah, of course. Molly's here as a witness, John. Lestrade should be along soon," Sherlock explains.

"I – right, okay, and _when_ were you planning on telling me this?" John tries to keep the tension out of his voice.

"Hardly matters, you know now."

"You – are you serious?" John eyebrows attempt to fly off his head.

Sherlock just blinks at him.

"Sherlock, we talked about this!" John cries, his hands clenching.

Sherlock shoots him a disapproving frown, "Really, John, what did you expect? We couldn't exactly get married in a vacuum. For it to look legitimate, _naturally_ we'd have to have a few witnesses. Molly saw us kiss – why would it be any different for her to be a witness?"

"Right and I suppose you're going to say Lestrade knew about this plan all along and he insisted on being a witness."

"Actually, yes. Spot on," Sherlock tilts his head and smirks.

John's temper flares just a tiny bit hotter.

"You still could have told me," John says quietly, all vengeful assassin.

Sherlock narrows his eyes at him before they widen slightly in realisation, "Ah. Not good?"

"Not good," John confirms tightly.

If John's being honest with himself, he hasn't expected Sherlock to keep his promise of keeping this quiet. It's true they need witnesses so his anger with the man can't be all that righteous. Perhaps Molly and Lestrade aren't the worst choices Sherlock could have made. Molly does need a bit of a wakeup call because John seriously doubts Sherlock has ever been interested in a relationship with the poor girl. Including Lestrade makes sense, because it's best that he's in on the operation in the first place. Neither of them are the type to go around gossiping about it, either.

Okay, so maybe that last bit is just fervent hope disguised as wishful thinking but there is a chance – however slim it really is.

John tries not to feel like he's clinging to that. Mrs Hudson, after all, would _definitely_ have been out and gossiping about it, so things aren't really as bad as they seem.

The door opens once more to reveal one Greg Lestrade, looking about as smugly amused as John can handle.

"Aw well don't you two look spiffing," the DI grins before nodding politely at Molly, "Molly."

"Greg, one more word and I'll murder you in your sleep," John warns, fighting valiantly against the heat rising to his face.

Lestrade only winks, eyes glinting, "Not a one."

John only just manages to keep himself from squirming. God, this is all so surreal. _Still_ so surreal. He thought he'd be used to the idea by now, but sometimes the truth of the matter hits him unexpectedly, and he would stop moving until he's absorbed the shock again. This is one of those moments.

He's getting married to his best friend. _Married_ to his _best friend_. His male, supposedly asexual best friend, who he doesn't have any romantic feelings for. None at all. Jesus Christ, who _does_ that?

John's getting sick of the way his mind keeps returning to this. He shakes his head slightly as if to shoo away his squeamishness. He seriously needs to get a grip. He can do this without freaking out, he _can_. They're getting a divorce. It's fine. Why does he care so much anyway? He doesn't need to care so much, he really doesn't so why _does_ he?

The only answer on the periphery is too alarming to even consciously address. Yet. He'll deal with it once all of this is over.

There's a silence as the four of them watch the small staff drifting around, making small changes in preparation.

"So – are these the suits you'll be wearing on the day?" Molly asks, her voice wavering just a little.

"Not at all. The real suits are still on lay by. 'Can't rush quality', as Mycroft would say," Sherlock sneers.

"I suppose not," Molly gives another little laugh, "You're really taking this seriously, aren't you?"

"It has to look authentic or else the killer won't take the bait."

"True, but you're getting new suits and everything –"

Sherlock interrupts by giving a heavy sigh.

" – don't you think you're overdoing it a bit? I mean, it's not like you two are really getting married," Molly gives a watery smile.

"Might as well be at this rate," John mutters.

Sherlock either doesn't hear him, or pretends not to.

In a tone one might reserve for speaking calmly to a disobedient child, Sherlock says to Molly, "You are mistaken, Molly – we are _really_ getting married and we are _really_ getting divorced soon after."

Molly draws her eyebrows together, "I didn't mean it literally. I meant that you're not getting married for the normal reason, you know, because you're in love with each other."

John feels his insides writhe at the idea. God, no. He really doesn't want to think about this yet. Nope. He's not doing it. He flat–out refuses. He looks away from them all as if it will give him an easy out from the conversation.

"Of course not, Molly. Don't be stupid. John's not gay, as he's said to death," Sherlock says in a perfect Eton voice.

That gives John pause. That isn't that solid of an argument...

He's not gay, no, but he _is_ bisexual.

He's known it for a while. He'd had a good mate in high school, which was when John had first realised. They'd liked each other, and then they'd really liked each other. A game of cat and mouse had followed – dropped hints, then casual touches and blatant flirting – with both of them unsure about who the cat was and who the mouse was. After a drunken kiss, they'd kicked the relationship into top gear. It had flared bright and hot, but like a lighter, it was only a temporary fire. Just the same as the five or so guys he'd dated – if you could even call it that – afterwards.

He's never really had that much luck with women either, but picking up women came more easily to him for no further reason than he felt more amenable towards them when it came to romance, so he had, for the most part, decided to stick with them.

Then Sherlock had come along. At first, he had been intrigued by the way he looked. Androgynously attractive with his high cheekbones and luscious cupid's bow lips, John's had silently thanked Mike Stanford for introducing them, because _damn_. John hadn't, however, been expecting Sherlock to open his mouth and spout mystery and magnetism.

At Angelo's John really _hadn't_ been thinking about dating. He'd been curious, wanted to get to know this Sherlock Holmes a little better, and the anticipation that something was about to happen with the case was what had been at the forefront of his thoughts.

He hadn't been disappointed in the slightest to discover that Sherlock was 'married to his work', of course not.

He has stuck with the girls, _never_ picking up any guys with the intention to date them after moving in with Sherlock – perhaps out of a misplaced paranoia that he might end up picking up ones that remind him of his flatmate. Either way, he's sure that if Sherlock does know he's bisexual, he also knows that John has no intention of randomly making a move on him. John's certain he's made that very clear over their time as flatmates.

But now, it's as if Sherlock has somehow caught on to John's carefully buried, restrained, and goddamn _secret_ thoughts and feelings and reserved tendencies and is pushing all of his buttons. They're already closer and far more tactile than normal friends, already spend most of their time with each other, and for God's sake – this case _is not helping_.

The kiss has been on John's mind ever since it happened. It lingers in the air between them, but John can't tell if that's just him or if Sherlock can't stop thinking on it either, for whatever reason. Probably out of scientific curiosity. Definitely scientific curiosity. _Definitely_ not as much as John has been. He can't help thinking about the way Sherlock's breath had ghosted over his cheek, how his hands had been warm, _so warm_, how his lips had been chapped and soft and insistent on John's still ones.

John shivers.

_Shit..._

A staff member makes his way towards them, and John, for no fathomable reason, tenses up.

"Shall we get started?"


End file.
